


we've got our aim, but we might miss

by daylightfalls



Category: Fleetwood Mac (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:41:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daylightfalls/pseuds/daylightfalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by what could have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we've got our aim, but we might miss

There's a place she goes every once in a while -- not very often -- and one night, she lets him follow her. Maybe she shouldn't, and maybe this is dangerous, but she indulges herself anyway.

  
  
"We name her Sara," she says, "because if I ever have a child, I'll name her that."

"Sara? Really?" he wrinkles his nose. "I never thought of you as unoriginal, but can we at least name her something that doesn't come from a song? If you're gonna do that, I like Rhiannon better."

"No. Sara. I always wanted to name a child that and that hasn't changed," she insists. "I just want her to be Sara." She crosses her arms over her chest, fake pouting.

It works, and he relents, rolling his eyes. "Fine, we'll name her Sara. Why are you so sure we'd have a girl anyway? What if we had a boy? I'm technically the deciding factor in this, remember?" he teases.

She sits up on her elbows and looks at him defiantly. "Because fuck you, that's why. Because I say we have a girl and  _we are naming her Sara_. End of discussion."

He chuckles at her as she lies back down, extending her feet into his lap and crossing her ankles.

 

 

"Do we have an ocean view?" he asks, absent-mindedly running his thumb up the length of her calf.

"We have a giant palace right on the ocean. You can see the bridge from there, and it's got sixteen rooms."

"Sixteen rooms? Stevie, that seems a little... much. If we're not famous, how can we afford this giant place?"

"Shut up with your logic and let me have sixteen rooms. At least let me have it now," she snaps. He nods silently, a pang of guilt shooting through when he realizes "let me have it now," was her way of saying, "You couldn't give it to me in reality, so at least let me have it in my fantasy." Her voice softens, and she continues. "We have a condo that we live in for practical purposes, The house is for special occasions. When it's just the three of us, we stay in the smaller place. We host all the holidays though - Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter. Everyone comes together under our roof." She pauses before adding, "And it has a giant tower and a big pool and waterslide and a giant playhouse for all the nieces and nephews and godchildren we'll have. And a ball pit. It'll be like their own little haven. Aunt Stevie's and Uncle Lindsey's place will be  _the_  place to be!" Her face lights up as the features become more ridiculous and extravagant (none of it for her, he notes, and he's glad to see that there are parts of her that will never change).

He smiles at that, humoring her. "'Aunt Stevie and Uncle Lindsey,' I like how that sounds." She beams.

 

 

(Every warning sign in his head is going off and telling him to quit it now before he falls for her again, and he doesn't bother to push it out of his mind. When he loves her, it consumes him and it's dangerous. It's a kind of love he never experiences with anyone but her, so every once in a while, he allows himself to fall in love with her again. It's worth everything that comes after they realize they've gone too far.

He's falling again, now. He hopes she might be, too.)

 

 

"We homeschool Sara," she continues but he interrupts, snorting.

"Like you have the patience for that."

"In case you forgot, I was going to be a teacher. Jackass." She lazily smacks his arm.

"Wouldn't it be better to put her in private school? Less stress on you and we can be sure she'll get a great education. We'll find a good school."

She purses her lips thoughtfully, considering it. "Only if we find her the  _best_  private school, okay?"

"Okay," he agrees.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She'll be brilliant," she says, smiling, "She will be whatever she wants to be, but she will be  _brilliant at it_."

"If she's anything like you, she will be," he murmurs, twirling a lock of her ridiculously long hair between his fingers. She reaches up and strokes his cheek with the back of her fingers, giving him a genuine smile. He grabs her hand before she pulls it back down, and settles his fingers right in the spaces that seem to be meant for hers.

 

 

"You teach third grade," he says, touching his lips to the back of her hand.

She makes a face at that and retracts her hand. "You think I have the patience to teach an entire class when apparently I can't even homeschool our  _one_  child?"

"I never said you couldn't. I just said maybe it would be better if you didn't. I think it's different when it's your own kid. I don't think it's good for the parent/child relationship," he says and she seems to accept this (he could get used to this whole not arguing thing, he thinks).

"You're the music teacher at the same school," she adds. "And they all love you. They think you're a little crazy--you are--but they love you anyway."

 

 

The sun's starting to peek above the horizon, but she doesn't notice and he doesn't tell her. They finally move from the couch they've been lying on together and into the kitchen, where she makes tea. He leans against the counter, and after she puts the kettle on the stove, she leans back into him. He wraps his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder, and for a brief moment, he can convince himself this is his reality, that she is his reality.

They waste no time settling back into the couch, into each other as soon as the kettle whistles.

 

 

"We play little coffeehouse gigs every now and then for fun as Buckingham Nicks. It's more for fun and a way to channel our creative energy," he says.

"And the audience is mostly kids that we teach, but we're okay with that. We like it better that way. We end our sets with little kid songs and that's their favorite part. Everyone sings along."

"When she's old enough, we teach Sara to harmonize and she does shows with us every once in a while," he adds. "And we're happy together, because we have it all. We have our music, but it doesn't tear us apart and we have our child and our quiet home life. We got everything we wanted." When he finishes, he's smiling, and he turns to her, expecting his grin to be met with one of her own. But there's no smile in sight.

He's gone too far, he realizes, throwing the happy ending he could never give her in her face. He desperately wants to rewind ten seconds and take it back.

But he can't.

"I guess I never realized how badly I want that," she says and her voice cracks slightly. She sits up, pulls herself away from him and tucks her legs underneath her. 

"I'm sorry, god, I'm so sorry, come here I didn't mean to--," he says, reaching to pull her into him but she bats his hands away and leans from him.

"No," she says and he freezes in surprise."It's okay. It's time for you to go home, though. Back to reality. Your  _wife_  will probably be getting up soon," and he cringes at her bitter emphasis on the word "wife."

"Come on," she says, patting his thigh and standing up. "Up."          

And then as  he's following her to the door, he does the only thing he knows how to do to make things better: "I love you."

"How about you tell me something I don't know, instead?" she asks, turning around to face him. "You never wanted children. You never wanted a family life. I aborted  _our child_  because you wanted me to. But here we are now, you somehow with this domestic life with your three kids and your wife... and me, fantasizing like a goddamn fool. Why don't you tell me how that happened?"

There's no anger left in her voice anymore, but the pain laced into it is enough to break his heart a little. They fixed the anger, the resentment, the hatred, but he'll never be able to make it stop hurting. She watches him, wishing he would say something to make it better while simultaneously knowing that anything he says will just make it worse.

"So just... don't," she finally says defeatedly. "Don't tell me you love me tonight like it's some fix-all for everything."

He opens his mouth to speak again, but she silences him by placing a finger over his mouth. "Don't even try," she says. "It's not going to make a difference. Just go home, Lindsey."

He nods, but pulls her into him before she can stop to resist. He fully expects her to push him away and is surprised when she wraps her arms around him and lays her head against his chest. His arms come around her, hands settling together at her lower back, and his chin rests on top of her head. When she pulls away, she gives him as much of a smile as she can muster and a small nod, assuring him that they're okay.

She watches him walk down her driveway, and when he's halfway to his car, he turns around and looks at her, almost like he's wanting her to stop him and ask him to come back inside and stay forever in their little fantasy world.

But she doesn't say a word, just meets his gaze, and he turns back around and gets into his car. Next time he looks, the door is closed.

 

 

She wants to be mad at him for everything, but she gave up that anger long ago. That anger is exhausting. It's only herself she has to be angry with now, for allowing him into this little world of hers. Her fault for forgetting that he's married to someone else, has kids by someone else and has a life with someone else. Her fault for getting so wrapped up in a fantasy and his arms that she actually fucking forgot for a few minutes that he wasn't hers.

She doesn't ever go back to that place.


End file.
